


Silver and Gold

by avislightwing



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 00:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10730622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avislightwing/pseuds/avislightwing
Summary: Feyre/Lucien friendship restoration. Based on the prompt "Feyre and Rhys helping Lucien to heal and defending him from Tamlin's manipulative influence?" from coffeesugarcream!





	Silver and Gold

“Oh, like you’ve never –”

Feyre, two floors above and distracted by the note she’s writing to Rhys, still flinches at the snarl that cuts Lucien off. Tamlin takes issue with others mouthing off to him as much as any High Fae, and Lucien has been very mouthy indeed of late.

It’s been three months. Three months of planning and plotting. Three months of pretending to shudder at the very mention of her mate’s name. Three months of simpering and placing her lips on Tamlin’s cheek when needed and resisting the urge to disembowel him.

A lot has changed in three months. Cassian’s almost completely recovered, though he isn’t flying yet, and it’s doubtful whether he ever will; Elain’s started a garden of moonlace and jasmine on the roof of Rhys’s home in Velaris; Azriel and Mor are evidently, in Rhys’s words, “a thing.”

And Lucien…

Feyre isn’t sure whether it was her return that triggered the change, or the discovery of his mate, or maybe even the banishment of Ianthe, but something like a flame – bright and vibrant as his hair – has been rekindled in Lucien. She hadn’t realized it was gone until it was back. His eye no longer dulls, sweeps over her in hopeless despair. She catches him absentmindedly humming snatches of a folk tune, or playing a few tentative keys on the pianoforte, or braiding flowers into his hair. (She wonders how much he notices the mating bond; the flowers in question look remarkably similar to the ones Rhys describes Elain coaxing out of his roof.)

Of course, along with these changes comes a revival in Lucien’s quick tongue and sharp wit. She remembers it from her early days in the Spring Court, when it was directed at her.

Lucien, she thinks, has a knack for using it on exactly the people who will react the worst.

Just as her note disappears, Lucien storms into the room, slams the door behind him, and flings himself onto the couch. “That bastard is getting on my last nerve,” he growls.

Feyre shoots him a warning look. “Lucien –”

He waves a weary hand. “He’s out. Don’t know where. Meeting with Ianthe, for all I know. But not before…” The hand drops, and he rubs slightly at the blossoming bruise over his cheekbone.

Feyre hesitates, troubled. Lucien’s been invaluable in the past two months. He snapped a month after the Hybern fiasco, pushed back against Tamlin like he hadn’t since Under the Mountain. Afterwards, Feyre (still a bit reluctantly) tended his wounds as he muttered bitter words about what he wished he could do to change – _all this_ , he said, _change all this, everything he’s done_.

She’d promised Rhys that she didn’t trust anyone at the Spring Court, but the genuine pain in Lucien’s face, the whirring of his golden eye as he made sure Tamlin hadn’t damaged it, cracked her composure. She told him. Not everything – not their plans, not details about the Inner Circle – but enough that she saw shock, then suspicion, then finally hope light his face. She explained about Rhys, what he was really like, why she was in love with him. Before Hybern, Lucien would’ve refused to believe it. Afterwards, he couldn’t ignore it.

“Mouthing off to him isn’t going to solve anything,” Feyre says, but her heart isn’t in it. She’s so relieved by the return of Lucien’s silver tongue that she would write a play just to hear him snark his way through the lines.

“I know, I know.” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “How do you do it? Just – keep quiet when he gets like this?” Feyre gives him a look. “All right, any time he opens his mouth?”

As she’s about to answer, Rhys’s response appears in midair and drops into her hand. “Like this,” she says, waving the page at Lucien. “Someone to talk to.” She feels a pang of unexpected sympathy. She knows Lucien wishes with all his heart that he could talk to Elain like she talks to Rhys, but that’s just not possible.

Lucien rubs his eyes. He looks tired. Not tired the way he did before – not hopeless – just bone-weary. “Maybe I should start writing to him, if he’s that pleasant of a correspondent.”

Feyre laughs again, but it isn’t as genuine as before. Since they allied, Lucien’s been taking the brunt of Tamlin’s outbursts. He doesn’t have daemati powers, and Feyre can’t always be with him to soothe Tamlin’s fury, tweak his thoughts. And that isn’t even taking into account the pain of being without his mate and the aftereffects of the months between Under the Mountain and Hybern. Lucien’s spirit is unquenched, but constant stress erodes even the hardest of hearts. And, Feyre thinks, that would not quite be the word to describe Lucien’s heart. It’s softer – like gold, perhaps:  resilient and invaluable, but able to be marked even by the slightest pressure.

“Lucien?”

“Hmm?” He glances at her, the note in her hand, and away again.

“If…” Feyre hesitates. “If there was a chance to leave the Spring Court – I’m not saying there will be, but if – would you take it?”

Lucien’s silent for a moment. His fingers absently stroke the textured wood of his chair. “Where would I go?” he finally says. “Not to the Autumn Court.”

“What if you could go to the Night Court?” Feyre asks carefully.

Lucien’s eyes snap to her, fingers stilling. In the silence, she can hear his golden eye whirring, adjusting and readjusting, seemingly unable to focus on her. “What?”

Feyre almost winces at the rawness in his voice. “You heard me.”

“I would take the chance,” Lucien finally says. “If I could.”

“I’ll remember that,” Feyre says, her voice quiet.

*************

She’s very nearly too late.

Afterwards, she thinks she should’ve seen it coming – should’ve seen how fast Tamlin’s sense was deteriorating, should’ve seen how vulnerable that left Lucien, the one within the blast range who didn’t have the powers of all seven High Lords.

Feyre hears Lucien’s scream from three floors away, and her blood runs cold. She winnows before she thinks about it, stepping through the fabric of space towards her friend. She can still hear the echo of his cry when the world resolves around her.

“Tam, please – _please_ –”

“You’ve been spying for them!” Tamlin’s voice is all animal snarl, and his claws have burst through his knuckles. “Don’t try to deny it. After everything they did to Feyre – after they took your mate away –”

“You don’t understand, Tam.” Neither of them have seen Feyre yet, but she can see them. Tamlin has Lucien cornered, and – she feels a jolt of horror as she realizes that one of Tamlin’s knives, his Illyrian knives, is embedded in Lucien’s gut. His long, pale fingers are clenched over the steel, scarlet blood welling up between them. “Please, don’t do this. I’m your friend. I’m still your friend.”

“Liar!” Feyre sees, as if in slow motion, Tamlin pulling an arrow from his quiver and nocking it. Leveling it at Lucien’s heart.

_Come. Now_. That’s all the warning she’s able to give Rhys before she flings up her hand, and Tamlin’s arrow shatters against her shield.

“Don’t hurt him. Don’t you _dare_.” Darkness dances over her outstretched fingers, forming into talons for a moment before dissolving into shadow once more.

Tamlin whirls to face her. “Feyre? What…” The words die in his throat.

“Surprise,” Feyre snarls, the heavy wings only Lucien has seen before settling between her shoulderblades. “Touch him again, and you’ll pay in pain.”

“My, my, Feyre darling…” Unlike the first time he appeared in the Spring Court, there’s no clap of thunder, no lightning flash of darkness, that accompanies Rhys’s arrival. Instead, he simply steps to her side, straightening his lapels, his darkness winding into hers like a sweet caress. “Such manners. And to a High Lord, too. I never would have thought it of you. Oh, wait…” He gives her a wicked grin.

“Prick,” she murmurs affectionately. _Thank you for coming so quickly._

_Anytime, Feyre._ He glances at her, violet eyes soft. _I’ll always come to you when you call._

“You –” Tamlin nocks another arrow, but seems not to know who to point it at. “Fuck. _Fuck_. Get away from her, you bastard.”

“Tam,” Lucien croaks. He’s still bleeding, his face paling by the second. “Tam, for the Mother’s sake, leave it. You can’t – they’re mates, they’re in love. Let them be.”

“ _You_ ,” Tamlin snarls again, whipping around to face Lucien, dropping his bow and grabbing another of his knives, lunging at the red-haired Fae now that Feyre is distracted –

“Ah, ah, ah…” Rhys winnows between them with a sharp crack. “I think little Lucien’s suffered enough, don’t you?” Feyre stares, a smile growing slowly on her face, as Rhys turns around and carefully pulls Lucien to his feet. Then, as Lucien stumbles, his eyelids fluttering, Rhys (not without a small sigh) sweeps the other male into his arms. “Don’t read anything into this,” Feyre hears Rhys murmur to him. “This is the first and last time this will ever happen.”

“We’ll be leaving now, Tamlin,” Feyre says, striding over to join her mate and her friend. “Next time we see each other… you’d better have chosen the right side. Because if not, it’ll be the last.”

“Is that a threat?” he snaps, hands white-knuckled on his knife.

“No, Tam,” Feyre croons. At her command, the temperature and light in the room drop, as if the sun has gone out. “It’s a _promise_.”

Then she places a hand on Rhys’s shoulder, and they winnow.


End file.
